


The Disciplinary Meeting

by daftalchemist



Series: A Loosely Related Series of Events [4]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, More like amorphous cloud entity rape, Other, POV Alternating, Rape, Station Management is having none of your shit, Tentacle Rape, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 18:59:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daftalchemist/pseuds/daftalchemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Station Management has had it with Cecil not taking his job seriously. Carlos gets caught in the crossfire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Disciplinary Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to sub3rduck for the beta and the vote of confidence.
> 
> And also all my followers who urged me to post this despite being nervous. You're all fantastic.

The insubordination had gone on long enough.

Despite what those entrenched in the day to day tedium of radio broadcast might have thought, Night Vale Community Radio Station Management was really quite lax when it came to managing the only radio station in Night Vale. The subordinates scurried about each day in fearful reverence, slipping notes with the most inane requests under the door. More paper? As though writing utensils were even legal. Better tasting coffee? Flavor was an irrelevant and highly subjective phenomenon not necessary for the production, acquisition, and consumption of lackey fuel. Who had time for putting up with shit like that? Not Station Management. Station Management was incredibly busy all the time doing terribly important and esoteric things and did not wish to be bothered. But it seemed like bothering was the only thing that underlings were good for, and Station Management had needed to adopt a policy of Zero Acknowledgment to make the peons just fearful enough to stop attempting to make contact as much.

It worked, and Station Management was pleased, but a new problem had arisen, and it's name was Cecil's Big Damn Personal Life Blabbing Mouth And Male Sexual Partner, and this was something Station Management could not abide. There were very strict rules to to the operation and management of a radio station. They were ancient and unknowable, laid down when the first humans settled Night Vale, so long before radio waves were utilized or even known about. The adherence to these rules was crucial and inescapable as even the most minor infractions would bring down upon the studio the wrath of the malevolent spirits the first town elders had manifested as upon death, and crumble it to the very foundations they had built their radio-based integrity on, and also the building itself would crumble, which would suck.

Station Management knew mistakes were bound to happen. The janitor might wash off a blood sigil that was essential for sustaining the broadcast, for instance, rather than one that was little more than a desperate intern's fearful attempt at protection against a rogue malicious presence; the worst kind of graffiti, in Station Management's opinion. But Station Management was not unkind, and did not want the minions to lose their lives over one insignificant person's mistake. And if protecting the herd meant sacrificing an extra intern that week, then that was the kind of selfless action Station Management was willing to take, you know, for the _team_.

But _Cecil_.

What had promised to be the greatest thing to ever happen to community radio was quickly becoming the greatest nuisance, and the list of volunteer interns was dwindling at too alarming a rate to keep the first elders' malevolent spirits appeased from all his... _infractions_ while on the air. Station Management did not want to impose a draft again, not after the devastating fallout that happened last time. The town was still paying off the repairs for all the property damage. That left Station Management with the only obvious solution: stop Cecil from fucking up this sweet thing they had going for them before it was too late.

It was a difficult endeavor, and Station Management didn't know if they were adequately prepared to take on someone who seemed as severely lacking in self-preservation and self-awareness as Cecil. Hadn't it been enough that him pulling shit like this had already caused Station Management to leave their office for the first time in...oh who even kept track of that sort of thing? Not Station Management. They were too busy doing doing all kinds of completely inscrutable work—just tons of stuff, all the time!

No, what Cecil needed was some good old fashioned swift retribution, much like the library used to dole out before they came up with this...“late fees” concept; a quaint extortion practice, but nothing that would last. And Station Management knew, oh they knew, that getting his complete, undivided, fearful attention was the only way to really teach Cecil to step in line, put his nose to the bloodstone circle, and power through the rest of his insignificant existence with minimal pissing the fucking Station Management off all the goddamn time! And that meant getting a little violent.

Or perhaps a _lot_ violent.

* * * 

Carlos had never seen Station Management before, partly because no one had and lived to tell about it, but mostly because they weren't someone Cecil had ever really talked about, more had just engaged in some whimpering and mumbling about vague horrors before immediately changing the subject. Perhaps if he had learned more about Station Management, he might have known to be suspicious of a billowing cloud of smoke with what appeared to be a roiling thunderhead at the center of it blustering through the halls of Night Vale Community Radio. Instead his scientist's curiosity immediately took over, derailing the path he had been taking through the labyrinthine and constantly shifting halls of the building to get to Cecil's booth. He'd shown up thirty minutes before Cecil normally did the weather just to make sure he'd make it on time if he got lost so he could surprise the radio host with some questionably appetizing food he had attempted to make himself, thinking it would be more romantic than getting Big Rico's again, although a lot less mandatory.

Maybe it was the knowledge that he had time to spare in finding his way through the maze of halls and locked doors that lead to nothing that caused him to approach the smoke, or maybe it was that he did just so happen to have his multimeter in his bag nestled between Tupperware and a hollowed out book housing illegal writing utensil contraband, or maybe it was that Carlos believed this was one of those one-time-only-limited-offer kinds of phenomenons that Night Vale seemed to favor so much. Whatever the reason, he was trying to figure out where exactly he would put the multimeter's probes to find out if the thunderhead looking area actually produced electricity or not when he was suddenly being encircled by grasping wisps of the smoke. They twined around him, wafting softly over his skin, and it produced the strangest tingling sensation, as though the weird smoke tendrils were actually... _corporeal_ and physically touching him, but a quick wave of his hand dissipated them, so that couldn't possibly be the case, and the multimeter wasn't registering anything either (though that could have been because it wasn't the right kind of equipment to use in this instance). _Fascinating_.

* * * 

This was the problem, Station Management knew; this so-called “perfect” being. Please. Station Management had known quite a few actual perfect beings in their time, and this one wasn't even remotely comparable.

He wouldn't even be worth Station Management's time if he wasn't also the solution.

* * * 

The smoke was everywhere. Around him. _In_ him. One moment Carlos had been attempting to take pictures of the smoke with his phone, and the next the smoke was pouring into every orifice, and it _burned_. _Everything_ burned; his eyes, his lungs, and...other much more intimate areas. Carlos choked and sputtered, but he couldn't exhale the searing fumes in his chest. And the tingling, oh _God_ , the tingling. It was _everywhere_. Every centimeter of his skin itched and crawled, every organ felt like it was wracked with minute convulsions. And...oh god. Oh _fuck_ , inside him. Where only Cecil had touched him and where only Cecil was supposed to. It just...it _screamed_ with pleasure that he tried so hard not to feel, but his cock was twitching, and he couldn't stop it, couldn't run, couldn't even curl up in a ball in terror because it _held him_. It was smoke and it held him like it was a solid mass with strength and weight and it was terrible, and just too good, and he hated how good it was. He wanted to vomit, but only managed a fit of dry heaving, still doing nothing to abate the assault he was suffering.

Then a sound halfway between a peal of thunder and a foghorn sounded all around him, so loud that it vibrated through to his core, and as the noise deafened him he was filled with a dizzying sense of disappointment, of concern, of unabashed fury, but they weren't Carlos' emotions. This...thing around him, whatever it was, was forcing the feelings into his mind, pinning them onto his brain like it was staking its territory. It was terrible; the emotions far beyond a normal human capacity, and Carlos barely even had a second to register he had begun crying before he could feel cold rivulets of tears running down his scorching hot skin.

The shame, however, was entirely his own. He felt incredibly ashamed. Ashamed that he had let his curiosity override his common sense, ashamed that he had gotten so used to living in Night Vale that he hadn't even stopped to think that this thing could have been a serious threat, but mostly ashamed because his prostate was damn near _pulsing_ inside him from whatever effect the smoke was having on his flesh, and the inside of his dick wasn't faring much better, and he was having an increasingly difficult time keeping his hips from instinctively thrusting into the smoke cloud swirling around him, and it was incredible. It was horribly incredible, and his dick was straining against his pants and not making the situation any easier to bare as he hoped and prayed and begged to whatever deity felt like giving Carlos a second of his or her time to not let him come, please, he'd do anything, just not like _this_ , not while being forcibly penetrated by some semi-corporeal smoke-based entity that was disapproving of _him_ , while he was just down some combination of halls from Cecil—oh _god_ , Cecil—from Cecil's booth, where he'd no doubt be talking about their latest date, and how much he loved Carlos, and how beautiful and...perfect and...

He doubled over, sobbing as the unwanted orgasm ripped through him, as the spreading patch of sticky wetness in his underwear tripled his shame, as the feelings of disappointment and fury were replaced with revulsion and a vague sense of accomplishment, and Carlos wished the smoke would just _leave_. Hadn't it already done enough? Wasn't it satisfied with how broken and used he felt? He just wanted to crawl back to his car and continue crying in the dark until such time that he was able to find the strength to drive, and then leave, maybe even leave Night Vale; was that so much to ask? He just...he couldn't let Cecil see him like this. He just had to leave, _now_.

The fog around him made a sound not entirely unlike a large predatory cat yawning, and somehow Carlos knew the answer was “no”, and he whimpered in fear at what that meant.

* * * 

Station Management burst through the door as another sickeningly unimportant story about “kisses” and things that were “neat” was interrupted with a shrieked “ _Station Management_ ” and an upset cup of flavorless coffee as Cecil erupted from his chair and cowered under his desk. The intern who should have been aiding with the broadcast had already rather intelligently scurried off, meaning Station Management was now going to have to go on yet another wild intern chase to make sure the proper sacrifices were made for mucking up the show tonight. It couldn't be helped; this had to be done.

Station Management propelled Carlos across the room, leaving him to crumple into a bruised heap against the wall. The last thing Station Management heard before receding into the hallway to find the rogue intern was a frantic “ _OH GOD...TH-THE WEATHER_ ”.

* * * 

It took a few agonizing seconds for Carlos to come to, propped up against the wall because every muscle ached too much to support his own weight, and his mind raw from having so many different sensations roughly shoved into it. It made everything so much more sensitive: the pain that seemed to spread into every inch of him, the itch that remained from being filled by...he didn't want to think about it. But the worst thing about waking up to find he'd been thrown about, bloodied, and bruised was the realization that the person who had brought him back to consciousness was the person he'd been just moments before planning on avoiding for at least a week, possibly two, or maybe forever. Just until the shame went away. And the emotional trauma that would most likely follow.

But instead the weather was droning on, and Cecil was assessing every bit of damage he could see on Carlos' body, from the bloody nose to the tender ribs. And Cecil's face... _fuck_ , the sheer horror and worry on his face. Carlos could only assume he must have looked at least half as bad as he felt, which wouldn't be a anything even remotely close to something that could be considered a pretty sight, if the tears in Cecil's eyes and his quivering lower lip were any indication.

And Carlos couldn't stand it.

He'd come here to surprise Cecil; to give him a mostly edible meal during his couple minutes of downtime during the weather, and instead he'd ruined his night with his _stupid fucking curiosity_.

Carlos smacked the back of his head against the wall as the tears ran down his cheeks anew, sniffling up the blood that was lazily dripping from his nose before he wiped his sleeve over the mess running over his split lip, white lab coat smeared horribly red. Carlos hit his head against the wall, harder this time, the only thing he could think to do that might make his mind settle the fuck down and shut the fuck up and let him just be numb and not be aware of Cecil's hands pressed against his cheeks as he kissed his forehead, his eyes, the corner of his mouth.

Carlos turned away, unable to look him in the eyes and see his fear and his love, and he whispered, “I'm sorry.”

The pitiful whimper Cecil gave in response was muffled almost immediately by his arms around Carlos' neck, and his chest pressed tightly against Carlos' face, and he cried— _shit_ , did he cry—all hiccups and pained sobs as he clutched as tightly as he could before the pain was too much and Carlos gave a wordless protest.

“What happened?” Cecil asked, still stroking Carlos' cheek, still grounding Carlos in reality by grasping at his hands, his neck, his thigh.

Carlos turned away again, trying to hide his cheeks burning at the memory, at how he'd hated it, wished for it to not feel so amazing, but it still had, and he'd shamed himself so thoroughly. But he was unable to hide, and unable to say anything. He couldn't tell Cecil; didn't even want to _think_ about it.

But he knew. Carlos didn't know how, but Cecil _knew_.

His face was the very image of rage in a second: his teeth sharpening into points, three more eyes blinking open to smoke and smolder with just as much hatred as the original two towards the door Station Management had escaped through ...and the tentacles. Six of them manifested from his sides almost instantly, tearing gaping holes through Cecil's button down shirt as they cracked angrily against the floor like so many whips, and that's when Carlos broke.

He cowered against the wall, curling in on himself as he wailed “oh _God_ ” and hid his face in his arms, shaking uncontrollably as he remembered, and _fuck_ did he not want to! Those tendrils, those horrible things. It was too similar, too angry, and Carlos needed to _get away_.

But then he was being pulled into steady _human_ arms again, and he looked up to find the most severe look of guilt he'd ever seen on a normal two-eyed person's face before, and Carlos sobbed as he threw his arms around Cecil's neck, letting all of the emotion pour out of him as he soaked Cecil's shirt with his tears. And Cecil clutched him tightly as he ran a hand through his hair, rocking him softly and making soothing sounds, promising him he'd be okay, that Cecil would take care of him, that they, together, would be fine.

And then, with so much remorse in his voice, he whispered, “You probably shouldn't come to the station anymore.”

**Author's Note:**

> Welp. That, boys and girls, is why I'm known more for my angst writing than my fluff writing in my circle of writer friends.
> 
> That is also the end of A Loosely Related Series of Events. But don't worry, there's PLENTY more Night Vale fic coming from me, just not within the series.
> 
> Thanks for reading. I promise the next fic I'll be releasing is so fluffy you'll want to puke, as well as being just the right amount of hellish for a Night Vale fic.
> 
> Edit: Yeah, I'm working on a fifth part to this series. God fucking help me I'm a bottomless pit of Night Vale fic ideas. FIFTH IS THE LAST ONE FOR THE SERIES THOUGH SO HELP ME.


End file.
